Down at the Bottom
by aerodynamics
Summary: That's what makes him better than everybody else.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Flames are welcome. This is dedicated to the beautiful and ever inspirational Cheap Indifference. She was the inspiration behind this. Please point out any and all mistakes. There is no slash in this little number. I'm hoping it displays the sort of friendship Dallas and Buck have. There is a possibility that I am way off in left field, but fuck it. Read, enjoy, and take it for what it is. Reviews would be really lovely!

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><p><em>June, 1964<em>

His ma said he'd have nights like these. She just never said why or how often or how bad they would be. Her excuse was that there are some things in life he needs to figure out for himself.

It could be worse. He could be moping over some dumb bitch that has a habit of running out on him. Instead, all he has to worry about is how many shots it's going to take for him to stop feeling and stop thinking and stop breathing if he's lucky. Luckily he's never had a problem remembering where the bathroom is.

Buck hands him two Aspirin that he washes down with a cold glass of water. He can tell from looking at him that he's sorry, and he wants to tell Buck that it's not his fault. Buck didn't force him to get up on that horse, and if anybody is to blame, it's himself. Because he should've seen this coming. He knew the horse spooked easy and was ornery—that was why he chose it. That's why it's _his _horse and he's stupid for not seeing the inevitable. He's gone and cost Buck a good chunk of money that he doesn't know how he's going to pay back, and even though Buck has said over and over again that he's just glad he ain't dead, he can see it in his eyes. He regrets putting him up there and it hurts. He's never fucked up this badly.

It's like Mack used to say, back when he still called him "dad". Leave work at work and home at home. And up until now, he'd thought he'd been doing a pretty bang up job of keeping the two separate. That's what makes him a good rider, keeping his head clear and staying focused, because jarring his attention from the track for even a millisecond will always result in _this_, and he's been scared of this—of losing—right from the start. He can handle the bleeding and the fractures, but he's always been a sore, sore loser. Buck says that shit happens and sometimes people have off days, even him, but this is a first. He's usually so goddamn careful, staying a good fifty steps ahead of every other jockey out there, and that's what makes him better than everybody else. That's why he wins and that's why Buck is willing to risk his skin on some fifteen-year-old kid nobody else would ever give the time of day to. He knows he's made for this.

Makes him feel pretty lousy when he thinks about it. It could've happened to anybody, and he knows that, but it happened to _him_. The horse didn't just spook—it rolled clean over him and tossed him damn near thirty feet. He hit the ground fast and he hit the ground hard. And it was Buck at his side first, shaking him and sounding calm as ever as he told him to get his ass up. It wasn't until he got a look at the goof did he see how frantic Buck was. He'd told him once upon a time ago that he'd seen enough riders die out there to know that he couldn't take a fall like that lightly. But he'd had to laugh it off and tell Buck, the goof, that he was made of steel.

He's starting to believe that less and less. Even though he was only trapped under that horse for a second and a half, he saw his life reel out behind his eyelids. And it wasn't until he felt and heard Buck that he knew he was still alive. There was a ringing in his ears and the sour taste of blood in his mouth that seemed to choke him the longer he laid there. And Buck must've known this, because he had him up and in one of the trailers that solely served the injured before he had his wits about him again. He refused to let anybody who wasn't Buck get a look at him; he didn't trust anybody else.

"You still with me, cowboy?" Buck sets another glass of water in front of him. "You're startin' t' scare me."

"I ain't gonna pass out, if that's what you're thinkin'." He rubs his temples and screws his face up. "Ain't the worst bump to the head I've taken."

He straightens up as best as he can and grinds his teeth against the hurt, knowing he deserves everything he got today and worse. It figures that Buck would be the one to get him out of a tight spot because he's gone and fucked up again. That's the way it's been since they were kids—he did the fucking up and Buck did the straightening out, and it hasn't changed. He doesn't think that it ever will. Buck is destined to keep on cleaning up after him no matter how hard he tries to not mess up. But that's what he's best at, isn't it? Now he has a debt to pay and it's eating at him because he's the one person he thought he'd never fuck over. At least not this badly.

It's all he blabbed about on the drive home. Kept saying that he didn't have to worry because he'd fix this, and although Buck told him over and over and over to forget about it, he's not letting this go. He's had his back through so much bullshit that he figures it's about goddamn time he returns the favor. He knows his riding—his _winning_—is the reason Buck has been able to keep this little tavern afloat for so long after his granddaddy went and kicked the bucket, and maybe it's too much on him. But he claims that he doesn't trust his own brother nearly as much as him, and he wonders what he did or what he proved to him. It could be him being stuck in his little world of idealism and trying to find the best in some kid that doesn't have a hope in hell of making anything useful out of himself. Buck knows he has evil tendencies and has been on the other side of his ill temper and bad judgment more times than he can count on two hands. He's seen him do things no normal person with any sort of conscience or moral would do and knows just how fractured his fragile state of mind is because of it all. But he has never judged him for it, and that is why he feels this loyalty toward him.

Buck hands him a lit smoke and grins. "Remember that time we was up in Wyoming…"

"Christ almighty." He nods and washes a hand over his face, biting against a smile. "I couldn't fuckin' tell you how we made it outta there with our sanity. But I swear I ain't never sharin' a goddamn room with you again."

"Maybe you oughta not flood yours next time, huh?"

His face falls as he shifts, trying to alleviate the pressure settled into all the wrong places of him. "Warn't my fault."

"No, o' course not," he snickers. "The toilet plugged itself."

He rolls his eyes and manages a laugh, and it's genuine in a way that only Buck can get out of him. It's pathetic. "Shut your mouth and pour me a drink," he says tightly, leaning against the bar heavily.

Buck wrinkles his nose. He's always had something about him mixing his pain killers with his alcohol. Says that he's asking for an early death, and he's never been more right. He'd hold his breath if he didn't think it'd take too long and be too painless. He wants to feel it when he dies.

"If you start frothin' at the mouth, you can't blame me," he tells him, giving him a severe look as he takes the shot glass from him and slams it home.

He puts his head in his hands, staring at his cigarette, letting the smell make him nauseous and dizzy as something heavy starts to settle in the air. "If I start frothin' at the fuckin' mouth, you got my permission to take me out into the back forty and shoot me with your granddaddy's precious little rifle."

"Duly noted." He sighs, adding to the heaviness, the unease that hits him hard sinks into his swollen joints. "Where was your head at today, huh?"

And there it is. He clenches his jaw and averts his eyes, because Buck has had him thinking all night that he wouldn't ask. Otherwise he'd have some cock-and-bull story prepared to feed him and give him the impression that everything is just peachy. But instead he starts tapping a finger on the top of the bar, bracing himself as the wheels in his mind come to a grinding halt. The cigarette is starting to burn at the filter, and the smell has him bogged down like he's trudging through the mud, searching for a lie he can tell but having no success in finding. He's been caught off guard and Buck knows it. There's no point in trying to lie—he'll call him out on it and put him in an even tighter place than he is now. He thought he had Buck convinced he was okay. Busted up, but okay.

"It ain't nothin'," he mutters through the heaviness.

"It's somethin'," he says. "Don't try and bullshit me, Dallas."

Spinning the empty glass between his hands, he doesn't know what to say. It's becoming less about convincing Buck that it's nothing and more about convincing himself. "I didn't leave home at home."

He swallows and stares off somewhere over Buck's shoulder, hating to admit it. But it's true. Home was up there with him on the back of that horse, wrapped around the reins, swimming in his sweat and the dust, thundering in his ears with the echo of all those hooves. It made it impossible to focus on anything else. He could feel Mack breathing down the back of his neck, making every single hair on his body stand on its very end, and all he could hear was the way his ma screamed. He still can. And he's still thinking about how he couldn't do a damn thing about any of it, just lay there and pray to whatever higher power that was watching that she didn't end up dead because of him.

Buck leans forward and swallows audibly, giving him no choice but to look at him. "What've I always told you?"

"If I ain't in no condition to ride, I ain't gotta ride." He scratches at his jaw. "I thought I was."

"How's Annie…?"

Sitting back, he needs more air and more space than Buck is giving him. He forgot how much he knows about him, all his demons and all his secrets. He's told him things he'd never think to tell anybody else, with the obvious exception of Jane, simply because he listens, and even he needs someone to just listen every now and again, even if he doesn't have much to say.

"She went to stay with her sister," he tells him, and he feels like he's on auto-pilot. "To be perfectly fuckin' honest, Buck, I don't think she's comin' back this time."

"Your ma ain't gonna run out on you, Dal," he tells him as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "She's your ma…"

He presses his lips together and narrows his eyes at the bar top. The only person he's been able to talk to lately has been Jane, and despite her best efforts, a lot of the time he finds himself getting too worked up too fast for them to get very far. And there's something different about talking with Buck, something he doesn't like because it's compelling, whatever _it _is.

"Sometimes I wish she would…" he trails off and shrugs with the shoulder that hurts less. "Sometimes I wish she'd just fuckin' leave and not come back."

"And you'll be sayin' the exact opposite when she does."

He puts his head on the bar, knowing that he's right. He always tells himself that he wants her gone and that he'd be better off if she did leave and really didn't come back, and up until now, he'd been so sure that he could live without her if he had to. And isn't that what Buck has always made him do, or done for him? Put things into a gross perspective that anchors him into reality and makes him realize how wrong he is? He knows that no amount of conditioning could ever prepare him for living without his ma. She is quite literally all he has and he feels all of this guilt collecting and pooling and ebbing inside of him because he should be able to protect her the way she's been protecting him for the last fifteen years of his pathetic little life.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do?" And he's asking honestly because Buck seems to have an answer for everything.

But his shoulders slump and he shakes his head, and it's in that moment that he knows there isn't a damn thing he can do. "Remember that she's a grown woman. It's noble—"

"_Noble?_" He'd slug him if he could lift his arms properly. "You mean to tell me that you'd fuckin' sit by and watch your ma try and take that shit with her mouth shut?"

He shifts—he's said too much, left himself too open. He can feel the cracks in the base of his composure, splitting apart the foundations he's tried to keep cemented together.

"I guess that's right where we differ, ain't it?" Buck says. "I'd be the one leavin'."

"You always have been real good at avoidin' all your fuckin' problems, Buck."

Buck pushes a drink at him and rolls his eyes. "Why stay if you ain't doin' nobody no good by bein' there?" He shrugs like it's just that easy and makes all the sense in the world. "Just takin' up space and money. 'Sides, she's grown, like I said. You gotta take care of yourself."

He's right. He hates it when he's right. He hates that he's smarter than him, and he can't stand that he gives a hang about him, because it makes him stupid and it makes him weak.

"Tough times don't last, Dallas," Buck says. "You're a tough kid, and your ma is a tough lady. She'll be okay."

That almost puts him at ease. If Buck says she'll be okay, then she'll be okay—he wouldn't lie to him. He wouldn't. But even as he sits there, in the heaviness and the nighttime mugginess drifting in through the open windows and the screen door, and the crickets start to chirp and the frogs start to croak, he can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. Maybe it's with him and maybe it isn't, but something isn't right.

"You oughta come by and see her when she's back," he says quietly. "She'll appreciate that."

"Maybe." Buck clasps him on the shoulder carefully and gives him a hard look. "You ain't always gotta leave home at home. I know I put my foot in my mouth a lot, but my granddaddy taught me how to listen real well."

"It ain't gonna happen again, Buck." He grimaces and shakes his head. "Home ain't got no business bein' on the track with me."

Buck snickers and walks around to the other side of the bar. "Don't you worry your blond little head about it," he says, letting Dallas brace himself against his shoulder before starting toward the porch. It's too nice of a night to be inside. "You're gonna be my first choice every time."

And he knows he means it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Flames are welcome. This is once again dedicated to Cheap Indifference. There is no order to these chapters; they're all just periods in time that hopefully give some insight into Dallas and Buck's friendship. Point out any mistakes, and as always, reviews would be just lovely.

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><p><em>September, 1964<em>

The crowd is heavy. He sits slouched over the bar, gripping the same beer he's been nursing for the last half hour. To his right is some unfortunate looking bastard who keeps blubbering over himself, maybe thinking he is an old friend or an old nobody, just like him. He isn't sure there's much separating him and the drunk, both lost and confused and unsure they'll find the elusive arms of safety at the of the night.

This isn't his crowd. But a drink is a drink, and after being cooped up in the car with Buck and feeling for all his worth as if he'll never find his way out of Illinois, he needs one if he plans on keeping his quickly dissipating sanity for much longer. Of course Buck isn't concerned; he's grown up lost and will stay that way for the rest of his life. He, on the other hand, has to have at least some sense of direction and know where he is. That way, if he has to leave in a hurry, he knows how far he has to go to get gone.

But Buck disagrees with him, saying on more than one occasion that the internal compass always points home. At the end of the day, that's where everyone wants to be, and he can't find a single flaw in the logic that makes him think Buck is wrong. As much as he hates being home, it has the sort of familiarity that will always bring him back.

Buck has his roots in too many places. He had enough problem leaving New York when he had to and can't even begin to imagine the appeal something like hopping from city to city, state to state, could hold for anybody. And maybe it's him being anxious and irrational, but there are some places people just don't come from back, and he's learned to trust his gut. He likes getting away from it all, but to him, there's a difference between getting and staying. Buck is a stay-er, a runner, teetering on the edge of cowardice like so many other people he knows.

Luckily for him, his ma taught him not to start something he can't finish or bite off more than he can chew. He finds it slightly contradictory, seeing as how he's never known his mom to stay in one place for very long, but he supposes that's her way of making sure he doesn't make the same mistakes she did at his age. Sitting there, he can see her vividly, washed out and giving him a list of all the things she wished she'd learned before she had him.

He was an accident, a product of nothing more than stupidity, and she's never tried to hide that from him. And while it has never been hard for him to accept, there are some days where he wonders if she would have gone on to live a better life, had he not been born. But he's sure everyone thinks that at some point in their life. He just can't stand to think he's one of the reasons she so miserable all the time; and he can't do a damned thing about it, except to stay way the hell away from her.

Clearing his throat, he feels Buck clap a firm hand on his shoulder. He knows he should be enjoying himself, or at least pretending to, but he can't. There's too much on his mind, and he's been too far from home for too long. It isn't weighing on Buck any; the guy has a grin on his face and a fire in his eyes like he's seen on only one other occasion, and he knows it means a fight is looming.

"Cheer up," Buck teases, pointing back the way he came with his drink. "The broads here're thirsty, and it ain't for no drink."

He shrugs off Buck's hand stiffly and rolls his eyes. "You sure as fuck don't need me to help quench their thirst."

Buck gives him an uneasy look, and he turns his head away. He has never been one to turn down a good fuck, but the idea of waking up in a strange town, in a strange room, in a strange state, with some strange whore does little to excite him. There are plenty of easy broads back home that will bend over backwards just to suck him off, let alone sleep with him. He doesn't need any of the ones here.

"Dallas Winston…" Bucks screws his face up and takes the stool next to him. "What in God's name is wrong with you?"

He narrows his eyes and shrugs as if he doesn't quite know himself. "It ain't nothin'."

"Ain't it?"

He digs his fingers into the side of his beer bottle and bristles visibly, feeling the air tighten uncomfortably as Buck sits back and sighs, as if he's trying to figure something out that doesn't make sense, no matter which he comes at it. It isn't hard to figure out—anybody in that room could see it if they were paying close enough attention. And he knows as soon Buck has it figured out, he'll be subjected to one of their grossly in-depth conversations he can't seem to get away from these days. There are some days where he doesn't mind them, or seeks Buck out specifically for that purpose, but Buck doesn't need to know that he's homesick and afraid of something he isn't sure of.

The more he thinks about it, the more the fear ebbs, as if having its own heartbeat, its own pulse deep within him. It's the sort of fear his ma used to tell him about, the kind he'd experience only if he was lucky—the kind that came with a bone-deep chill that was sure to make his joints ache and his head swell. The kind, she said, that he won't be able to do anything about, where the only cure is to let himself be scared.

The twang of the steel guitar and the whine in that washed up country singer's voice sounds so warped and so hollow in his head. The stretch of the crowded bar-top bends and twists into something he can't recognize. But it's all in his head; he's playing games with himself. There's nothing sinister or abnormal about the streak of lights, and though he's seated perfect still, the spinning of the room is relentless. The people rush, the music rushes, and Buck's voice saying, "You look awful pale, kid," is rushed.

"I'm fine," he says, not having the patience for this as he tries again to shrug Buck off, even if he is grateful for the hand keeping him centered. "Get your fuckin' hand off'a me."

"A friend in need is a friend indeed." Buck licks his lips and finally sets his drink down. "Am I right, or am I right?"

He rubs his nose on his sleeve and tries to breathe through the sudden congestion. "You know that don't make no goddamned sense, right?" he says, and he isn't sure that Buck was looking for an answer in the first place. "Sometimes, Buck, I swear to fuckin' God…"

"Makes perfect sense, when you think on it," Buck tells him, handing him a lit smoke.

Taking a long, deliberate drag, he has a sinking feeling in the pit of him stomach, in the midst of the acidity and the sloshing and the disturbed tissue. This isn't the sort of conversation meant to be had in the middle of some bar, where prying ears are inevitable and everybody is hungry for a little out-of-town gossip. He'd feel less exposed in a room or the car, or even on the other side of the front door, but none of those things seem to occur to Buck. Privacy isn't a concept a lot of people comprehend.

"I ain't having this conversation with you, Buck." He coughs dryly, shaking his head. "I ain't doin' this tonight."

"Like hell y' ain't." Buck nearly snorts at him, and it's a mix of disbelief and disgust that makes him wrinkle his brow. "Get off your high horse, Winston."

He starts to say something, but Buck cuts him off, hot-tempered and volatile in a way he isn't used to—not when it's directed at him.

"You ain't the only person in the whole world that's got baggage, Dallas, so you best take your head outta your ass right quick."

It's not much of a mouthful, but swallowing something dry in his throat, he knows it's the most he's ever heard or ever will hear Buck say in one sitting. He sets his jaw and hangs his head, almost as if he's biting back something he doesn't really have to say. Anybody else, and they'd be face-down in their own blood with their teeth at the back of their throat, but coming from Buck, it gives him something to think about.

Above everything else, he knows Buck is right. But who doesn't think they're alone every once in a while? He knows he's worse off, because he's grown up alone and has come to believe he'll die alone, but he has to remember that Buck has been there since day one. If there's anything he's learned, it's that Buck is somebody he can and will continue to count on. And he has to believe, for his own sake, that Buck won't leave him—not even if he deserves it. Buck has a long fuse and all the patience in the world for him.

Good friends are hard to find. Even back in New York, being part of that gang, he never had friends. There were too many rivalries and too much deceit on the inside. The people he had been close to he wants to forget. Lindsay Callaway and Archie McCallister were not the type of boys anybody in their right mind wanted to get mixed up with; and that's why, no matter how great the temptation, he will never go back to gang life. All he wants is a group of guys he can kick back with at the end of the day and know they'll all still be okay with each other in the morning. He's had enough of two-faced people, pretending they're on his side one minute and trying to slit his throat the next. Stable, even-keeled people are what he needs; they're easier to trust, easier to predict.

Smiling to himself, as if trying to lighten the mood, Buck nudges him with his elbow. "Never thought I'd live to see the day Dallas Winston passed up an easy fuck."

Something in him snaps. He dumps his beer over Buck and sends the lit end of his cigarette sailing into his lap.

"Fuck off," he spits, jerking his stool back to leave. "You don't know shit."

He knows as soon as he's turned around, Buck will be on his heels. But he snaps up the collar of his jacket, hell-bent on putting distance between him and this place. He doesn't care if he has a rodeo that the rest of his riding career hinges on and that the winnings are twice high as anything else he's ever ridden in, he's leaving, and Buck can come along just easily as he can be left behind.

As the cold air hits him and the rain slides off his jacket, he shudders and stands at the edge of the sidewalk, watching the cars go by in a blur. Across the street, a neon sign buzzes, and as he debates stepping out in front a car going too fast on too slick of a road, he hears Buck behind him, cussing his name and everything else.

"What the fuck was that?"

He doesn't want to answer. He pinches his shoulders together and sneers to himself. "It'd be in your best interest if you left me the fuck alone."

"Oh, I'm sure," Buck says. "Shut your trap."

He waits until he can feel Buck next to him, heat from the bar catching between them. Stealing a sideways glance at Buck, he feels empty. And in the artificial glow of the street lights, Buck looks weathered and washed out, eyes stoic and unamused, as if throughout the years he's forgotten to feel. Without a drink in hand, Buck is a shell, devoid of the basic emotions that would otherwise make him human. He hates to think that he'll end up like Buck, and he doesn't think he'll be able to live with himself if he lets his life take the same shape Buck's has. Like his ma, Buck has taught him what not to do—what mistakes to avoid making—in hopes that he'll end up better off that him, which isn't likely.

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me, kid," Buck says quietly, moving after a brief hesitation to sit on the wet bus bench.

"I ain't a kid," he mutters, and he sits beside Buck, thinking their whole dynamic isn't normal. "And I ain't got shit to say to you."

"Call 'em as I see 'em." Buck gives him one of his infamous looks and can't do anything but shake his head. "An' you go right ahead and keep tellin' yourself that."

He jams his hands into his pockets and glares at the top of his shoes. Buck has a way of getting into his head and ripping his thoughts apart that he still isn't used to. There are some things he wants to keep to himself, but as long as Buck is around, nothing will ever be sacred.

Taking a deep breath, he shifts uncomfortably and tries to ignore the tension, thinking that maybe if he doesn't pay it any attention, it'll leave. He knows he brings things like this on himself, and yet the ability to dig himself out of the hole he's always finding himself in is always just out of arm's reach.

"You know, Dal," Buck starts, quiet again, "my granddaddy told me somethin' real useful, back when he was still alive."

"Yeah?"

Buck nods. "Said that if somethin's gonna happen, it's gonna happen—you better just grab hold of somethin' and hold on."

"Guess your granddaddy was a pretty smart guy, warn't he?"

"You don't know the half of it."

As Buck places a hand on his shoulder, he rubs his face and thinks that maybe this all just fucking ridiculous. He needs a good night's sleep and a fresh start in the morning.

"You know I'll get you home in one piece, Dal," Buck tells him, squeezing his shoulder lightly.

"I could be in a million pieces, so long as I get there."

And it figures that Buck would make everything okay at the end of the night. It's what he always has and always will count on him for.


End file.
